The Sleeping Princess and the Dragon(Slayer)
by Wings Of Mercury
Summary: Queen Heartfilia loves her husband, but she won't allow him to control her daughter's life. While her intentions are pure, her methods are...extreme. When Lucy wakes up from her enchanted sleep to a dragon(slayer)-guarded castle, she's going to have to make some decisions about what she wants out of life and whether those wants outrank her duty to her kingdom. FAIRY TAIL AU. NALU.


**I was inspired to begin writing this after reading "The Dragon's Ward" by au revoir pets. "The Sleeping Princess..." will be quite different (other than the Sleeping Beauty setting), but I still highly recommend you checking out his/her fanfiction because I truly enjoyed it. Credit to au revoir pets for the setting/situation.**

**Disclaimer: All credit for Fairy Tail and its affiliations goes to Hiro Mashima**

**That said, please correct me on any typos, mistakes, or canonical inaccuracies (such as nicknames) that you may notice. I love good criticism. Also, I will be taking some suggestions as to future scenes and plots points if I find them clever enough. Enjoy.**

...

Once upon in a time, in the faraway kingdom of Fiore, there was a city called Magnolia, and it was renowned as the liveliest (and most often reconstructed) place in all the land. Tonight, however, the city slept to the steady rhythm of falling raindrops (instead of the usual falling hammers), and not a soul cared to brave the damp streets when there were warm fires and welcoming beds to be found.

Except one.

A hooded figure ghosted silently down the slick cobblestones of Magnolia's main thoroughfare, hunched against the rain splattering its dark cloak. Every so often, the figure turned to peer back through the dimness at the way it had come, clutching a ring of keys that flashed gold in the occasional lamplight.

Finally, the figure stopped in front of a multi-tiered structure that might have been imposing if not for the childishly bright paint that even the gloomy weather failed to dim: mint-green columns clashed with a red roof and blue lettering on a golden sign. The sign was topped by an ornament that was probably supposed to be a heart, but poorly concealed support beams gave it the appearance of a pretzel.

"FAIRY TAIL," the sign read.

The figure reached out a hand to brush slim fingertips across the battered wood of the front doors. Scuffs, dents, scratches, and even some scorch marks had all been clumsily sanded down and covered with a fresh coat of paint that didn't quite match. The figure chuckled quietly. These were worn doors, but well-loved ones.

The figure grasped the tail of the fairy shaped door knocker, noting with a wry smile that the wood under the knocker was the only unblemished spot on the entire door, and slammed it down three times. The sound echoed hollowly into the building beyond. The figure waited patiently, and after a few minutes, one of the doors swung wide to reveal an unreasonably short old man wearing a striped jester's hat and fairy-patterned pajamas. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes to look blearily up into the hood of his visitor.

"Good evening, Guildmaster Makarov," came a soft and unmistakably feminine voice from beneath the hood. "May I come in?"

"Queen Layla Heartfilia," Makarov said, wrinkled face uncharacteristically grave. "You should not be out in your current condition."

…

"Now then, what can I do for you, your Majesty?" Makarov asked, standing on tiptoe to place a cup of tea on the small table at the Queen's right hand before clambering up onto his own stool. They were both seated in front of the guild's only fireplace (rarely used ever since _that_ incident), she on the only armchair with all its stuffing intact, and he on a tall stool so that he could speak with her eye-to eye.

"No need to stand on formality, Makarov. I am here not as Queen of Fiore, but as a woman… and a mother," she added with a fond glance at the gentle swell not quite hidden by the loose cut of her dress. Layla sipped from the (chipped) teacup, but blanched horrifically at the taste and hurriedly put it back down on the battered side table, sliding it a few inches farther away from her for good measure. By the time Makarov had situated himself on his stool and turned to face his guest, the Queen was sitting innocently with her hands in her lap, guileless face fixed with a polite smile.

"Very well then, Layla, my child." Suddenly Makarov fixed the young woman with a stern and disapproving gaze, "what possessed the most important woman in Fiore to venture out onto the streets unarmed, unguarded, in the rain, at a time when no law-abiding citizen should be awake? Carrying the kingdom's only heir, no less! The King must be worried sick."

Surprisingly, the young queen threw back her head and laughed.

"I don't see what's so funny," Makarov fumed, unaware that his serious face made him look more than ever like a disgruntled gnome.

"No, no…you're absolutely right," Layla managed to get out between peals of mirth. "It's just been so long since anyone treated me like a _person_ instead of their queen. For a moment, I felt like a ragged twelve year old again, caught stealing apples from the neighbors' orchards. Now, I can't even get my maids to tell me truthfully which dress looks best on me, for fear I'll have their heads if they choose wrong." Abruptly, she sobered. "I still can't believe I have maids sometimes. Or more than one dress to choose from."

"You said that the King would be worried, but the truth is, the King is why I'm here," Layla sighed, absentmindedly fiddling with her key ring. "He's…changed, Makarov. Ever since his father died, my husband has been like a different person. He's colder, harder, and when he looks at me, I'm not sure what he sees, but it isn't me. It isn't Layla.

"If it were just a matter of needing time to grieve, I would understand! I know what it's like to lose people, and I can't imagine dealing with it while suddenly being saddled with the fate of an entire kingdom, but…it's like he's hiding from his grief by immersing himself in his work. The kingdom is all he ever _talks_ about, all he ever _thinks_ about. He _sleeps_ in his office most nights now, and when I see him at mealtimes he brings his papers to the table and doesn't even thank the staff for the food he barely touches.

"Those papers aren't even important. I asked his head secretary," the queen said, shaking her head. "The poor man is at his wits' end. He says Jude has been snagging reports off the secretaries' desks without telling them and that their chain of command is in chaos because no one can _find_ anything. They're all terrified that their liege has lost faith in them. I mean, in the name of the Celestial Spirit King, Makarov, does a twenty foot border dispute between sheepherders in the northeastern mountains really require the attention of the _King of Fiore_?"

Layla paused for breath, and Makarov spoke into the silence: "It sounds like you have quite the problem on your hands, my dear. My usual advice when someone tries to shoulder their burdens alone is to give them good whack on the head and a stern talking-to about what it means to be _nakama_, but such measures were not exactly designed with royal dignity in mind. I'm not sure what to tell you."

Layla waved a hand dismissively. "Thank you, Makarov, but I assure you, if it were advice on my marital problems that I sought, I would not have needed to sneak out of the castle like an errant teenager." The young queen gazed intently at the Guildmaster over interlaced fingers, searching his face. "I came to you because what I need is possible only for a mage on the level of the Ten Wizard Saints, one with a very specific set of priorities…ethically speaking."

Makarov's face grew guarded, but Layla continued as if she hadn't noticed. "When I said Jude had become obsessed with the kingdom, I didn't mean just with micromanaging its day-to-day affairs. He is convinced that the best way to unify the kingdom is to strengthen the monarchy's control, and for that he needs support from the nobility."

"The child," Makarov guessed, suddenly feeling very tired.

"Indeed. Before she is even born, my husband is preparing to auction off our daughter to any man who will spot him a few votes on the council. Negotiations are already underway." Layla's face was hard and cold, and the elderly wizard was sharply reminded that her former guild, Love and Lucky, fell into obscurity almost immediately after she had departed for married life. Layla Heartfilia was a force to be reckoned with.

"Makarov, these are not nice men. The kind of men who cheerfully exchange their principles for some soft, young flesh to play with never are. And even if I have to dismantle the government with my own two hands,_ my baby girl will not spend her life as the plaything of an old pervert,_" Layla snarled, momentarily dropping her royal façade to reveal the fiery young mage who had grown up on the streets, where personal loyalty was everything and the phrase "civic duty" was only ever heard in the punch line of a bad joke.

"I see," Makarov sighed. "I'm not sure if I can be of use, but what did you have in mind?"

"The Sleeping Beauty curse."

"WHAT!?" Makarov spluttered, dropping his teacup to shatter on the floor, thus saving himself the need to actually drink from it. "Layla, that is nasty magic, _dark_ magic. I won't help you with anything like that. No, certainly not!" he exclaimed, shaking his head so hard that the bells on his jester's hat jangled furiously.

"Hear me out, Makarov, please," she begged. "I'm not looking for the traditional curse with the castle full of comatose people and the wall of brambles soaked in princely blood, and I certainly don't need the spell to hold for a hundred years. I just need to keep my daughter away from the court until she turns eighteen."

"The answer is still no," Makarov said, glaring up at her from beneath bushy eyebrows. "But for the sake of curiosity, what's so special about eighteen?"

"At eighteen, if she chooses, she will be legally entitled to abdicate any and all right to the throne."

"What good will that do? Awake or asleep, she will still be a princess."

"Think about it. No one will know when the she will awaken except for you and me. The King can't promise her to anyone while she's asleep, obviously. When she does wake up, she'll have no training, no sense of royal decorum. She'll be completely unfit to wed, at least until she can receive lessons in the basics. That will give her _time_, Makarov, time to experience court life and decide if that's what she wants. If she grows up believing that it is her royal duty to sacrifice herself for the kingdom—and Jude _will_ raise her that way because that's how he was raised—she'll never think to question how much she's really giving up, or if the cause is worth her sacrifice. Maybe it's selfish of me, but I don't want my baby girl to live her life for duty without at least knowing how many wonderful things there are to live for."

Makarov snorted. "I should think that there are better ways to defend your daughter from her father's enthusiasm than _cursing_ her. Jude may outrank you as King to Queen, but as man to wife you aren't giving yourself nearly enough credit. Just teach the child to think for herself. It's not like he can—"

"I'm can't, Makarov. I won't be there."

The old man blinked. "Huh? Why not? You aren't…you aren't _leaving_ him, are you? Forgive me if I'm being presumptuous, but you don't strike me as the type, especially not so soon after his loss and what with the baby coming and all. Well, I suppose if you're sincerely unhappy, then of course you shouldn't just…but then again, it's a rather touchy situation since he is the King…I mean, that's no excuse, it's just a little awkward since half the kingdom was at your wedding and there was quite the stir when the heir apparent announced he was engaged to a commoner. Not that it matters, obviously, but…Oh Mavis, you are definitely not winning _that_ custody battle, no wonder you're planning for contingencies…" By now, Makarov was babbling nervously and yanking on the points of his jester's hat. "I'll have to attend his second wedding," he groaned. "I'll never be able to afford another kingly gift, not with the way these brats are constantly destroying things. The reparation payments are bleeding me dry. Can they not avoid destroying something for _one mission? _STEPCHILDREN!" he exclaimed. "Stepchildren are awful! Think of the succession; that can't end well. You're absolutely right; we can't leave your daughter in that mess…but cursing royalty is high treason; I'm certain of it….Then again, if my I'm executed I won't have to buy a wedding gift—"

_ "__Master Makarov!"_ the queen shouted. By her tone, she had been trying to get his attention for some time. "I can assure you that I do not intend to divorce my husband. I am a Celestial Spirit mage, remember? I made a vow to love him 'until death do us part', and I do _not_ break my promises.

"Then wha—?" Makorov froze midsentence. "'_Until death'" _he repeated silently to himself. "Oh. Oh my, Layla, I'm—"

The young queen stopped him with a wave of her hand. "Please, Makarov, save you condolences until _after_ I'm dead."

"How?"

She shrugged. "Illness, I think. A very mundane, painless sort of passing anyway. I wasn't given many details and I don't want them. It's a little earlier than I had hoped, but I do have a few years to spend with my daughter, and I intend to make them count. More importantly, I want to ensure her happiness for her life after me. To that end, as much as I love him, I have to keep her away from Jude."

"Be that as it may," the old man said gently, "but wouldn't it be too cruel for you to take his daughter from him as well as his wife? He'll be devastated. He may come to hate you."

"He won't," she said, smiling sadly. "It won't even occur to him that I must have been plotting behind his back. It's just not the way he thinks. I know my husband, Makarov. He is a good man, one of the best I've known, but he is spoiled. When he loses something, be is a favorite shirt of a loved one, he becomes so obsessed with the one he lost that he forgets all about the others that he loved just as much. He's doing it now with his father. He spares not a thought for his poor mother, still alive and grieving just as hard, or his wife who misses him, or his unborn child, whom he hasn't even asked about, by the way. When I'm gone, he won't treasure our child all the more for my absence. If anything, he will resent her because she isn't me. If Jude were any other man, I would do something less extreme, but he is the King. Right or wrong, his word is law, and when I'm gone, there will be no one with the courage or ability to slap some sense into him."

"So please, Makarov, help me," the young woman pleaded softly. "Help me teach my daughter about the important things—adventure, wonder, friendship, love—the stuff of those fairy tales you're always going on about. Besides," she added with a smile. "How can you fault me for wanting for my daughter all the same things that you teach your own children?"

Makarov bowed his head with a sigh, inwardly struggling with himself for several long minutes. Finally, he lifted his head:

"Very well."

…

Hours later, after they had hashed out the specifics of the spell, Makarov lead Queen Layla to the door. He was stumbling with tiredness, and even the normally impeccable queen had dark circles under her eyes.

"I will escort you back," Makarov insisted.

"No need," she deferred, brandishing her keys. "Regardless of what you mind think, I am neither alone nor unarmed."

"Nonsense," he retorted. "The magic of women with child is unstable. You're thirty years too young to pull one over on me, missy."

Layla grinned sheepishly. "Yes, but my friends promised that if I were in danger, they could open the Gate by themselves."

Makarov harrumphed, but allowed her to walk past him and into the night. He started to close the door, but a sudden thought stopped him. "Layla," he called.

"Hmm?" she responded, turning so that the light from the doorway reflected off her warm brown eyes.

"Have you chosen a name yet?"

The young mother beamed. "Lucy. Her name will be Lucy."

…

END PROLOGUE


End file.
